Chapter Five
Jonathan–past
The moon hangs low and swollen over Ravensreach Point, its light washing over the hydrangea bushes that line the sprawling lawn of my parent’s house. I stumble up the gravel drive, the crunch of stones under my boots echoing louder than I’d like. My head swims, a heady cocktail of cheap whiskey and adrenaline coursing through my veins. I’d stayed too long with the guys, let the bottle pass around one too many times. Now the night feels slippery, unreal, like a dream I’m halfway inside.
“Woh!” I call out, narrowly dodging Annabel’s little cousin on a bicycle. The rambunctious twelve-year-old yanks the handlebars of her pink bike to the side, skidding out in the gravel. She instantly begins to wail, tears surging down her cheeks. “Britt–”
Her watery blue eyes cast up to meet mine. Moonlight glints in her irises and I think for a moment how she looks so much like Annabel.
“J-jonathan?” she stutters through her tears.
“You okay, kiddo?” I kneel, catching sight of her scraped and bloody knee. She sniffs, nods, then bursts into more tears. “Do you think you can walk back to the house?”
She shakes her head, tears flowing faster as she catches sight of the fresh blood.
“Okay–would it be okay if I carry you to the house?”
“Y-yes.” She sniffs. I gather the little girl in my arms and walk on swift strides to the small cottage she’s been staying at for the summer with her family. When we walk through the front door, her mom rushes to us with worried eyes.
“What happened?”
Britt cries harder. “I fell on my bike and J-jonathan rescued me!”
I smile at her innocence, then deposit her on the couch. Her mom vanishes down the hallway for a moment then returns with a first aid kit. She kneels, wipes at the wound with a damp rag, and then covers it with giant bandages.
“Thank you for carrying her home,” Britt’s mom’s eyes catch mine a moment, “you’re a Godsend.”
“My pleasure. What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t carry the princess home after a fall from her noble steed?” I bow and wink at Britt.
My act stops the tears from flowing a moment. A small smile spreads across her face.
“Until next time, Ms.” I grin back at her, then turn to leave. I’m out the door and walking down the path that splits the two cottages a moment later when a rustle to my left pulls me up short. I squint into the shadows, trying to focus through the moonlit haze. The hydrangeas shiver, but there’s no wind. I lean in, squatting slightly to peer into the dense blooms, their white petals ghostly in the moonlight.
That’s when I see her.
“Annabel?” My voice comes out hoarse, cracking on the second syllable. She doesn’t answer, but I’d know her silhouetteanywhere. She’s crouched low, her knees pulled to her chest, arms hugging herself tightly. Her raven hair spills over her shoulders, a tangled halo against the dark. She looks younger than her seventeen years and there’s something about the defeat lacing her features that makes me sad.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, moving closer. My footsteps are deliberate now, careful not to startle her. Something about the way she’s folded into herself, so small and still, sets my pulse pounding for reasons I don’t fully understand.
She sniffles, and that tiny sound slams into me harder than any drunken stumble. “Go away, Jonathan.”
“Not happening.” I kneel beside her, the damp grass soaking through my jeans. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
She shakes her head, her face buried in her arms. “You’re drunk.”
I almost laugh, but the sound dies in my throat. “Yeah, maybe. Doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”
For a long moment, she doesn’t move. I’m about to press her again when she lifts her head. Her eyes are glossy, rimmed red, and swollen. She’s been crying for hours. I can see it in the way her mascara smudges across her cheekbones like war paint.
“It’s nothing,” she says, her voice thin and brittle. “Just go back to your party.”
“Annabel,” I say softly, her name a plea. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you too long for that.”
Her lips tremble, and for a second, I think she’ll push me away again. But then her shoulders sag, and she lets out a shaky breath. “My parents,” she whispers, the words almost swallowed by the night. “They’re fighting again.”
That much I could’ve guessed. The storm clouds over the Dupin household have been gathering for years. But the way she says it, the hollow edge to her voice, makes my stomach drop.
“Tell me what happened,” I urge, reaching out to brush astrand of hair from her face. She flinches at first but doesn’t pull away.
